


Lights Will Guide You Home

by eternaleponine



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-25
Updated: 2012-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-30 02:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/326784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock returns to Baker Street after a long time away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights Will Guide You Home

He had been watching the house for weeks, waiting for the right moment and, if he was being honest with himself, the nerve to face what was coming. What had to come. There would be yelling, he was sure, and quite possibly violence. 

He would deserve every bit of it.

That didn't mean he relished the thought, though, and so he finally decided that making his reappearance late at night was the best approach. John kept his gun in his desk drawer, not his nightstand, so if he caught him after he'd retired to bed for the night, he wouldn't have it within easy reach to shoot him as an intruder before he had a chance to show his face.

Not that he thought that a likely outcome; John wasn't really the type to shoot first and ask questions later, unless he'd changed a great deal since Sherlock had last seen him. Interacted with him, rather, as he saw him all the time. 

_You see, but you don't observe_ , he thought, each time he thought himself in danger of discovery only to have John pass him by as if he was invisible. He didn't let him come very close if he could avoid it, but as time had dragged on, months and then a year and more, it had become harder and harder not to tempt fate, to let himself brush against his best friend in a crowd to see if he would finally take notice, and this whole charade could end.

It was finally time, he'd decided. Past time. 

_But might he not be better off without you?_ He supposed that John would tell him that the little voice that nagged at him at inopportune times was his conscience. Most of the time it was easy to ignore, except when it took on John's exact tone and phrasing. That wasn't now, though. It wasn't John's voice telling him he might be better off staying away. _He's finally begun to move on. Do you really want to drag him back down into it?_

The answer was yes. Resoundingly and unequivocally yes. He wanted to drag John back into their lives, the one they had shared where, he'd thought, they'd both been happy, for all of John's griping about inconsequential things like the fact that he consistently put the milk back in the refrigerator nearly empty and which celestial body revolved around the other.

He waited for all of the lights to go out in 221B Baker Street before he finally approached. His key still slid into the lock and turned, and he pushed the door open cautiously. Not a sound came from above; the house slept. He shut and locked it behind him, climbing up the stairs as silently as he could manage, remembering without thinking where each creaky board lay.

He slipped off his shoes at the door and hung up his coat, then padded up the stairs to John's bedroom. He hesitated at the door, his hand on the knob. Perhaps it would be better to wait until morning. Why disturb his night's sleep?

But there were many, many hours until dawn, and the thought of sitting awake, having all of that time to question and second-guess himself, to consider the possibility that this might be the wrong choice after all, was more than he could bear. He twisted the knob, hearing the soft snick as the latch drew back, and pushed it slowly open.

The dim light from the hall spilled in, enough to let him see his friend, his face set in a frown even as he slept, his forehead creased with anxiety. He looked older than Sherlock remembered, when he'd always thought people were supposed to look younger when they slept. 

_A bad dream, perhaps,_ he thought, because he could swear that his friend did not look so aged and careworn when he'd seen him during daylight. There were a few times when he could swear he'd even seen him smile.

He went to the edge of the bed, sitting down on it gingerly and reaching out to put his hand on John's shoulder, shaking lightly. "John," he murmured. "Wake up."

The other man grumbled and frowned, but didn't wake. Sherlock shook him again. "John, please. It's me. Wake up."

This time his eyes cracked open, and as soon as he got them into focus, he tried to sit up. Sherlock took his hand away, allowing it because he didn't want John to think himself under attack. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, John. It's really me."

He shook his head. "No, it can't be. I'm dreaming. I'm having a nightmare."

_Nightmare?_ That hadn't been the reaction Sherlock had been expecting. "I assure you, I'm very real," he said. "Shall I pinch you?"

"Don't you dare," John said, staring at him, although Sherlock thought he saw the merest hint of a smile. "Then... you're here?"

"Obviously."

"You're alive?"

"An excellent deduction, but do feel free to take my pulse if it you feel that your other senses deceive you. I would very much hate for there to be any doubt in your mind as to the veracity of my claim to vitality."

It surprised him, although in hindsight he realized that it shouldn't have, that John did exactly that, grabbing his wrist and feeling the steady throb beneath his fingers. The grip remained, so tight Sherlock thought the bones might be grating together, but he wasn't going to complain. A little pain was a very small price to pay for what he had done to his friend.

"No," John said, shaking his head. "No, this is... you were dead. I checked your pulse then, and you were dead."

"A trick. A necessary trick, and one I wished that I could have avoided playing on you, but it had to be done. For you to live, I had to die, and it was the best I could do on short notice. I am sorry, John. I am so very, very sorry."

John finally released him, pointing at the door with a shaking hand. "Get out."

Sherlock blinked. "What?"

"I said, 'Get out.' Leave."

"John, I—"

"Get. Out."

Sherlock got up. He didn't ask if John meant out of his room, out of the house, out of his life completely. That was a detail that could be worked out later. For now, he would begin with simply getting out of John's sight. "I'm sorry, John," he said again, and left, shutting the door carefully behind him.

He went downstairs to the living room. Nothing had changed. His things were still there, if not exactly where he'd left them, close enough that he could find anything that he needed without much looking. The only room that had been much changed was the kitchen, with his science equipment cleared away, but he suspected not truly gone. If everything else was so perfectly intact, he couldn't see John getting rid of it.

He put on the kettle, knowing he wasn't going to sleep, and not sure what else to do. 

A moment later he heard the sound of feet on the stairs, clattering down, and when he stepped back into the living room, it was just in time to receive a fist to the face hard enough to send him reeling against the doorframe.

"I deserved that," he said. "Are you done now?"

"You were _dead_!" John snapped, his voice somehow remaining low and even, but it was clear that he was holding himself back from shouting. "You were _dead_ , and it's been so long, Sherlock, so bloody long... I was starting to _believe_ it. I was starting to believe that you truly were not coming back and I _hated_ you for it!"

"I can't say that I blame you," Sherlock said. "I can only say that I hope you will believe me when I say that I didn't wish to remain away as long as I did, and if I could have come back sooner, I would have."

John shook his head. "You've been gone for nearly as long as you were here. Do you have any _idea_... I've moved on, Sherlock. We can't just—things won't ever—" He swallowed hard, his head still going back and forth like he couldn't stop. 

It reminded Sherlock of the paw on one of those smiling cats in that shop in Chinatown, but in the negative, and finally he couldn't take it, couldn't watch John teetering on the edge of coming utterly undone for a moment longer. 

He reached out and took John's face between his hands, chilly fingers bracing his jaw, stopping the motion. "I'm here, John, and things will be however we want them to be. No one else gets to define our lives for us anymore. We're done with that."

"What if I tell you that I don't want anything more to do with any of this?"

_Then you would be lying_ , Sherlock thought. Everything in the flat gave testament to the fact that that was very much not the case. "Then I would go," he said. "You would never have to see me again." The words hurt to say, sliced at his heart as he forced them out of his mouth.

John just stared at him, his throat working. His hands came up and rested on Sherlock's wrists, and Sherlock could feel the tension in them, like he was trying to decide whether to pry them away or whether to hold on for dear life.

"You owe me an explanation," was what finally came out of his mouth.

"And you'll have it," Sherlock said. He leaned down, his forehead resting against John's, and he watched the other man's eyes close before his own did the same. He couldn't be sure, of course, but he suspected that the other man was battling tears with as much ferocity as he was himself.

For the second time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was crying, and for the second time, John Watson was the reason.

It meant something, he was sure, but he didn't care to think too much about what. Right now, in this moment, it was simply a fact to be accepted.


End file.
